


It's Okay

by wRexident



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:48:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8363938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wRexident/pseuds/wRexident
Summary: Intended with female Shepard in mind. However the way I wrote all this, doesn't exactly specify gender. And I also didn't intend it to be written in this perspective but eh.





	1. It's Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Intended with female Shepard in mind. However the way I wrote all this, doesn't exactly specify gender. And I also didn't intend it to be written in this perspective but eh.

He smells like metal polish and cigarette smoke. A strong musk with a hint of soap from an earlier shower lingers on his skin. You can almost taste his sweat as you draw closer. Everything in your body tells you to halt, instinct is kicking in. You don’t really fear him but there’s that edge of warning twisting against your better senses. He’s dangerous, it says. You smother that warning as the merc opens his mouth and mutters his usual line, “Hey, Shepard.”

He wants to trade another war story, show you another scar, give you another near wink of his blind eye. And everything in you screams against it. He’s not Kaidan. He’s not safe and warm like Kaidan. He won’t kiss like Kaidan. But you’re tired of thinking about someone that’s not there. Not anymore. For the first time, in a long time, you trade a story with a man twice your age, who’s seen more than his fair share of shit gone wrong, and he shares in your tragedy: losing someone.

The familiar ground feels like heaven. You lean against the wall with him. Stare at his make-shift dart board from across the room. Count the knife hilts buried in the metal. He tells you how terrible it is to lose someone in such a way. Sympathy is one thing you never thought you’d see from a hardened mercenary, but then again, it’s all you’ve given him since he started jabbering away. Maybe you rubbed off on him.

His voice calls your attention. “Shepard, you okay, kid?”  
Kid. The age gap doesn’t offend you. The title even less so. He’s just being self-conscious.  
“Yeah,” you shoot him a sideways glance. Heat briefly kisses your cheeks as you peer into his blue eye. But for once, you actually mean it. Near him, you’re comfortable. You feel okay. And that’s more than what you’ve been able to say since you rose from that table in the Cerberus lab.


	2. It's Not Okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by ageofthegriffon

It’s been a long day. Nah, not just a long day, but everything since waking up in the Lab has blurred into one continuous stream of existential nightmare.  
_How much shit can go wrong in such a short time? _, you think.__

You’ve spent the last two hours having a mini-meltdown in your cabin, trying to put a handle on the bullshit flowing through your brain, and you can’t. You can’t put it into words. You just feel helpless or hopeless, which is ironic considering you’re supposed to be what’s passing for a face of new hope. And not just any face, but THE face. In fact, your face is plastered everywhere on the news. Your name is a symbol, the flame of the torch; it’s on everyone’s lips. Ghost? Human? Avenging Angel? Everyone’s got you up to this impossible standard and it’s starting to feel shitty. And every day you wake up, you feel less like a person than the day before. Never mind that you’re actually performing feats, but the realism of those feats turns into far-fetched rumors and people actually start expecting you to turn water into wine.  
But it’s not even that that gets you. It’s the fact that in all of this, in all of the familiar faces, through all of the traumatic events, you can’t seem to lean on anyone. Not that you’ve tried successfully, but whenever you try to try, something happens or there’s an interruption or what you’re trying to convey flies completely out the window. Then you stand there feeling foolish and decide to sweep those feelings under the rug.  
“I should probably go,” is your go to. It’s become your motto. Even if it is more of a question than a statement of decisive action. (Unless it’s someone outside the crew. Then it’s more of a definitive statement. And without the ‘probably’.)  
It isn’t befitting of your title and status to unload on your crew. So you suck it up and move on; it isn’t important anyway.

So here you are, alone in your cabin, wearing out the floors with your boots, scuffing the metal. Between the bubbling of the fish tank and the hum of the SR-2′s engine deep below, the silence is unnerving. You push your hands through your hair and try to pull it together, pretend that you’re not lonely or dying on the inside. It feels like every fiber in your being is being wrenched apart by the insurmountable pressure in your chest.

It’s in that moment, EDI informs you of a guest waiting right outside the door. You heave a heavy sigh. _What now?!_ , is your next thought. God knows you can’t have a moment to break down without something else happening. No, that’d be asking far too much.  
You grumpily ask, “Who is it?”, with all the reluctance in your body.  
“Zaeed,” EDI sounds like she chirps the name happily.

You frown, obviously confused. What could he possibly want? The situation with Santiago was resolved. You drop your hands to your sides.  
“Fine. Let him in.”

You watch the door’s console roll from red to green and in strolls the hardened merc. You always did like that stride, slow, sure, but also cautious as though any moment he’d brandish his sidearm and fire. He isn’t equipped, but you suspect he might have a knife hidden somewhere. He’s not in his usual get up but you’re sure he’s strapped somewhere beneath the white tank top and black pants he’s chosen as his very casual attire.

“Zaeed,” you state his name, and it’s almost a blessing upon your lips. “What do you need?”

He’s looking around. Fishtank. Models. Desk. Copies of Fornax. The space hamster, Ry-ry Cutie Pie. (A.K.A. Ryder.)  
“Nice place, Shepard,” he gives pause and steps down the small case of stairs. “Figured I’d come and visit you for once since you’re always coming to see me. Much better environment up here.”

You shake your head, slightly in disbelief. Visiting? Better environment? Sure, there’s a nice big bed and a skylight. Yeah, there’s the couches and fish tank… but what good is any of that if you’re too anxious to enjoy it and are sleeping alone?

“Yeah, I guess,” you shrug.

The merc’s eyes narrow and he tilts his head to the right as though trying to see you better with the working eye. Suddenly, you realize he recognizes your distress and though you try to tuck in your sulky mood by giving a wry smile, it’s too late. Far too late. You pray you don’t actually have to explain yourself to the man.

“Got any drinks up here, Shepard?”

Oh, god. It’s actually happening, you think as your jaw tenses. Someone is going to make you explain yourself.

“Yeah,” you answer. And you pick up that he knows you have alcohol stashed away. Of course, you do. Of course, someone knows. Of course, it had to be him of all people. Clever bastard.

You provide a bottle of whiskey, some stuff you picked up on the Citadel. It isn’’t the sweet kind Kaidan preferred, but something a little more suiting to your bitter mood of late, and a lot stronger.

He’s sitting on the couch then, more relaxed than usual. Something in that tells you he trusts you. You pour yourself two-fingers and sit close, but not too close. Your legs are curled up beneath you. Maybe there’s an arm’s length between his hip and the edge of your knee. You’re leaning heavily on the back of the couch. He’s facing forward, with the glass between his hands on top of his lap. The white tank he’s wearing hugs and hints to muscle structure beneath. A sparse bit of hair peaks over the top of the tank where it dips against his breastbone. You start noticing these little things about him for the first time and you can’t tell if it’s unnerving that you are noticing or if it’s just typical of when you grow fond of someone.

“So, what is it, kid?,” he asks, taking a sip of the whiskey. There’s that title again. It’s starting to grow on you a lot like the way Commander did.

You don’t want to insult him by playing stupid. A million things roll through your mind. Not knowing where to start, you exhale heavily.

“C’mon,” he scoffs, “It can’t be that bloody bad.” You love how he ends his sentences with a slightly quieter tone.

“Sorry,” another exhale escapes your lips. You suddenly can’t focus on him, but rather start scrying the golden brown liquid in your glass for how to approach or explain the massive clusterfuck going on in your internal processes. “I don’t know where to even begin.”

He can’t fathom the idea of you not sharing your snafu. He turns slightly on his right side to face you and you clear your throat. “How ‘bout the beginning? It’s a simple concept, Shepard. You open your mouth and just say the fuckin’ thing.”

The aggression in his voice brings heat to your face. He’s calling you out. You sense a bit of impatience in his voice. If you were anything else you might have snapped back, but today you don’t have the strength for hard confrontation. A frown plays on your expression. His brows furrow in expectation. He knows damn well you don’t have to explain yourself but he’s not exactly going away either. What even brought him here?

“It’s hard to process, alright?,” you let the anger out in your voice. “Since I woke up on that fucking table, everything’s been a goddamn mess.”

The hard lines in his face, especially around his eyes and brows, soften. Maybe he’s proud that he’s rubbed bad language off onto the Commander. Or maybe he’s just relieved that you’re sharing something of your experience and not hording it up like some angst-hording dragon.

“Good start,” he says. The left corner of his mouth tugs upright a bit. You’ve never really noticed that before. Did the man smile? It seemed so foreign to a mouth usually down-turned. There’s also a light in his eye that hasn’t been there previously. You realize this is his way of engaging you.

So, for once, you let it all out in a furious ramble. You tell him about Kaidan, Liara, Saren, about waking up to Miranda and Jacob. About Jack and Miranda’s infighting. About Garrus’ leaving C-Sec. You get up from the couch and physically launch yourself into a hot, angry speech about how friends should not abandon friends. As you’re saying this, you keep the mercenary’s struggles with trust issues firmly in mind. The glass of whiskey is still in your fist. It sloshes over the lip and hits the couch. You barely notice how much alcohol you’ve wasted waving it about rather than drinking it. You miss Ashley but you refuse to accept her anger. You miss Liara but you also refuse to accept any of her “kindnesses”. (You use that term lightly, you say.) And then you abruptly stop as both the alcohol and emotion start to brim on the edges of your eyes and blur your vision. You turn your head away to hide it all.

“At least, I have Tali and Garrus. At least, there’s Chakwas and Joker,” your voice cracks under the strain of emotion. “Even if some of the new crew does worry me, I do my best to accept what makes them unique and different to the old crew. I just miss my friends so much.”

“You’re lucky, Shepard,” he says. And you hear him rise from the couch, but you can’t look at him because it might break the last of your crumbling will apart. “Not everyday you get to call someone a friend.”

The glass in your hand slips away. You think you might have dropped it but then his scent hits you strongly. You realize he’s in your vicinity and is coming closer.

“No, Z, don’t,” you plead, afraid he’s going to do something comforting. You can’t take the thought of breaking down in front of him.

You hear the clink of the glass as it hits the table. And suddenly he’s there, pulling you by the shoulders against him. Warmth encompasses you. Your face goes right into the nook of his shoulder and neck where his Blue Suns tattoo is. His hands are so strong, sliding down the center of your spine as though smoothing out the tension. You can’t fight the urge to cry.

“It’s alright, Shepard,” his voice is gravelly, gruff, right in your ear. His breath melts against your hair line, soaks into your scalp. The sudden contact with someone you didn’t expect to be so gentle breaks down the last of your will and for several moments, you let the tears flow while in his embrace.

When you take in a sobering breath and reclaim yourself from the sorrow, his hand rests against your cheek and his thumb brushes away the last of your tears. Before you can protest and tell him what a mess you’ve made of this by crying, he pre-emptively speaks as though he knows your tells.  
“It’s alright, kid.”  
And you relish the sound of his voice, how coarse and warm it is all at once. The urge to swallow is involuntary. Studying his face is involuntary. Your eyes trail from the cross of scars on his chin and follows the creases in his skin up to the crescent scar around his blind eye. Your gaze shyly dances around meeting his. He looks like he’s smiling again. Something in it melts your insides.

“Feel better?,” he asks. He’s being considerate. You don’t know how to perceive a man normally as hard as tempered steel. You give a slight nod of your head.

Then you freeze as he leans forward, thinking he might act on some impulse or another. His lips touch your forehead and you relax immediately, releasing any harbored suspicion.

 _He’s soft on me_ , you think as realization dawns on you. _He’s not the type to do that to just anyone._

His embrace lingers a moment longer and then his grip on your back fades. You immediately miss his warmth. Cool air nips through your hoodie.

“I should probably go, Shepard,” he says. Did he take that line from you? “You look like you could use some sleep.”

And just like that he turns away and takes one step forward to leave. For whatever reason, this doesn’t settle well with you. Your hand lashes out and grabs his forearm. He halts where he is, but he doesn’t look back. His arm is incredibly warm. Or maybe it’s your palm, sweating. Either way, you can’t break contact. You have no will to do so. Maybe it was that he used a line you normally say when you’re hiding stuff deep down. Maybe he was being reserved. His turn at playing a ‘big goddamn hero’.

“Wait,” you blather suddenly. “Don’t leave.”

It takes you saying his name for him to turn and face you; he’s unreadable. You have no idea how he’ll respond to what you are about to say. “Please,” you add, “The bed… it’s too big. The room, too quiet. I can’t sleep anymore. Just about everything I love has drifted far away from me… And you, you are the first thing that makes sense to me for whatever reason.”


	3. Congruence

"And then the bastard got up and started to run, smoke trailing off his singed head. We laughed our asses off. I couldn't even line up a shot to take the fucker out!"

You smile, wishing you could have seen the debacle go down. You're starting to wish you could see the universe through Zaeed's eyes a lot more with the way he lays the cosmos bare in bits of truth. Even the embellishments have become charming in their own way. It's an escape from how heavy the mantle of "Commander" has been on you and it grows even more burdensome as time drags on. Every second seems your last. Every breath and heartbeat, a gift. Moments of respite are few and far between. You're glad he stayed. There was a look in his eye suggesting he might run, but then again, you've never seen Zaeed back down from a challenge. Why would he start with you? He'd already seen you at your worst. He had no reason to leave.

So, as he falls into silence, a smirk still on his face, you're left to puzzle out your draw to the man. He's a merc, made cold and hard. Former military. Former co-leader of the Blue Suns. A man who'd left Earth and found the confines of known space within his tastes. You wonder about his life before and about what caused him to take on the creation of one of the most renowned gangs. How had he dealt with the pressure, then?

"Better stop all that g'ddamn thinking," he says, popping your bubble and recalling you into the present. "S'one thing I learned, Shepard: Never think about what you have to do. Better off with just doing it and getting it over with. You idle too much and you'll never get it done. Or you live in the dread of doing it. That's no way to live."

"Carpe diem, huh?," you let slip a smile.

"Seize the goddamn day," he reaffirms, returning your smile. His eyes shine beneath the alcohol and mirth. His good eye seems so blue.

You almost say something, then you decide not to spoil the mood. He regards the notion curiously and you hope he doesn't press but as the thought crosses your mind, he opens his mouth.

"What?," he asks, "I always see you on the verge of spilling something but you don't quite come to it. I think tonight is the most I've seen you discuss anything with anyone. What gives, Shepard?"

"I didn't exactly plan to discuss all that," you say sheepishly, heat dances across your cheeks in a flush of embarrassment. "A leader must always remain in control, balanced. What good is it if I'm oversharing my emotional status. It would affect the team's morale."

"What a load of shit," Zaeed's voice cuts through your thoughts. And it insults your belief, everything you've been taught, everything you learned about a good leader, everything you've survived through on the thought of protecting others. "You know what your problem is, Shepard?," he goes on. "You have this misconception that everything is in black and white. Never quite between. Never grey."  
He sees the hurt on your face and his tone softens. "Look, kid, accept there are things that will be out of your control. Since when did sharing break a leader?"

"So," your frown goes from petulant to determined to understand where he's coming from. He's a friend, so you don't want to snap at him for sharing his view. "Is this a talk about morality?"

"Morality?," he asks as he sips from the glass tumbler. "Nah. It's more about accepting that bad shit happens and sometimes it's too much for one person to deal with. I'd know a fuckin' thing or two about that."

It then crosses your mind Zaeed is a self-taught man; the path he's walked has brought him far and taught him much. He's eager to instruct because he doesn't want anyone to fall where he fell. Not such a strange way to care about people, even if he can be a bit crass about it. He never quite had the tact to be anything other than what he is. You've accepted him for it. In theory, it should be no different to accept the grey in situations as it is in people.  
"You've got a damn good team, Shepard. It'd be a shame not to lean on them from time to time."

"Yeah, I do," you agree. The anger fades as you comprehend his words. He may not be always right in your eyes, but he's sharing his perspective. It doesn't quite feel right, but there is some truth in his words. The argument about gray morality would be circular between you. He is a cynic. No reason to trust anyone. In his world, credits speak volumes. Yet, he has some spark of honor. Almost died because he wouldn't bend. You can relate with all this very strongly.

Silence falls between you and the mercenary. You and he both take a drink simultaneously. It gives you a moment to soak in your thoughts, pull them together through the haze of emotion and drunken processes.

"Did you have anyone to lean on?," you ask as one question nags your brain.

He glances at you, then looks thoughtfully briefly. "I thought I did, a long time ago. Told you about that one. Aside from that, I've old crew I'm not in touch with lately. Now, I guess it's just the Normandy."

"You know," you can't wipe the smile from your face, "Everyone seems to enjoy your stories."

"Good to know I'm not completely wasting my breath."

"Oh, come on!," you scoff and smack his arm with the back of your fingers in a brushing motion. "You enjoy telling them!"

He snorts out a breath, lip curling as though disgusted. "Yeah, yeah, I do." He takes another sip and sucks in a breath between his teeth, "Though I think my favorite currently is how hard the Commander Shepard can deliver a g'ddamn punch."

"Shut up!," you feel a blush creeping across your face in unabashed embarrassment. "We were both in the heat of the moment."

"Y'know, Shepard, I've never been decked by anyone and stayed beside them."

The memory burns thickly in your head, as thick as the dark clouds of smoke rolling up from the facility. You can still feel the heat from the fire licking at your boots as you strode through ruined walkways, pipes bursting at the seam with liquid flame and beams collapsing from the constant explosions that rock your normally steady steps.

"I've never had to deck anyone like that before. I was sure you would leave."

"I was sure you'd leave me there," Zaeed quips back.

You gawk in horror at the prospect of leaving someone to burn alive trapped beneath a steel beam.

"I was angry, Z, but I wouldn't have left you!," you speak quickly to dismiss the treacherous image accompanying that thought.

"Had me thinkin' otherwise, Shepard," he said then, looking somewhat intimidated, or wounded. The light in his eyes dimmed as his lids narrowed. He sucked his thin lips in between his teeth.

"Z, we're a team," you shake your head, "And like I said, I was angry. I couldn't on good conscience leave you there."

"But you were right. I wouldn't have blamed you."

"That's not how I work," you sigh and slide your drink onto the table, feeling somewhat lost in the bad memory lingering between you. Santiago had made a narrow escape, leaving Zaeed robbed of his vengeance. However, he was focused and dedicated to stopping the Collectors now.

The mercenary heaves a sigh, "Yeah, that's probably a good thing, Shepard. Someone should stick to their word or there'd be more salty bastards like myself around, clogging up the order of things."

"Salty bastards with good stories?," you shoot him a smile. "Salty bastards with knowledge and wisdom. S—"

You cut off as he stands, forsaking the glass to the table. A frown flattens your smile out. Was it something you said?

"Sorry, Shepard," he turns away, masking whatever emotion he might be donning if any. "Don't want to ruin the mood here. Think it's really time to call it a night."

He doesn't allow you time to escort him to the cabin door. It shifts open, and he throws a hand up in a wave just as you rush up the three stairs up. "Some other time, Shepard. Thanks for the drinks."

The door shuts, cutting off your view of him, and a sudden sense of deja vu happens all over again. Liara. Kaidan. Always a door in your face. Always cut off by circumstance. Always alone in the end.

You're left to wonder exactly what did it, this time.


	4. Dissonance

Over the next few days, there's a sourness building inside you; a deep bitter resentment for whatever state continues to keep people at an arm's length instead of where you want them to be. Pressure's rising in your chest but you strap on your gear anyway and polish the superficial scratches from one of the glossy carbon shoulder guards. You check your gun next, test the sight, and strap it on your hip.

As you walk, every inch of you is ridged. Your footfall echoes in the hall. Everyone can hear and feel you coming from a click away.

 _'The bitch is on the war path again,'_ you imagine Joker saying. He probably would, too, jokingly if he wasn't so scared of pissing you off to high hell and back. But you found it hard to smile lately, much less laugh. You can't even seem to muster the usual banter over the comm. 

EDI reminds you frequently the dangers of stress and its affects on blood pressure which can attribute to hypertension. She also frequently reminds you to intake meals and avoid smoking and alcohol, but these are tough times. You firmly remind her you know what you're doing and you didn't come this far to die to some meager kidney or liver disease. Hell, you already died once, and right now, dying again seemed pretty appealing by a long shot.

But you've got a job to do. And it's no fault of the common every day human that you can't seem to land the affection you're craving. So you go on, relying a lot less on thought and more on action.

Garrus says nothing as you slip a bit of vodka into your coffee. He knows he's witnessing a soldier under stress. Hell, he'd join you if it were turian friendly. Instead, he leans against the console as you step up to the CIC map to begin plotting your next destination. Kelly Chambers listens attentively between yours and his chatter, and offers to bring up any other outstanding requests.

And at the end of every one of your long shifts, you stalk back up to your room from the armory smelling like gunfire and sweat, hit the shower then sit in silence on the bed, Silvery blue light from the aquarium slashes across your vision as the fish dart to and fro. You note they've been taken care of and remind yourself to thank Kelly later. That thought always seems to be interrupted by a bout of unexpected sleep, as though avoiding Zaeed has also caused you to avoid everyone else, too.

By the fourth day, your presence has your crew walking on pins and needles. Even Donnelly, who was always speaking before thinking, seemed a bit more closed-mouthed as you walked through. The one time he engaged, he was cut short.

"Hey, Commander," he calls. His accent is thick. "Y'know what ya need, right? A good—"  
"Ken, if you value your life, shut your face. The Commander has better things to do than listen to you," Daniels cuts him off, then says to you, "Ignore him, Commander. Though I'm sure a well-placed kick will remind him to mind his own business."

You want to snicker but you don't have the strength. You stroll past without replying. 

Jack meets up with you on the regular just below the engineering deck to supply you with a silent smoking partner. She still pours through the files and a countless number of names and places, snorting in bouts of disgust and muttering curses under her smokey breath. But not once does she ever ask why you're suddenly hanging out with her instead of Zaeed.

The circadian rhythm hits hard on that fourth night. You're ready to succumb to the darkness of your eyelids, to forget everything and slip into a warm, cozy place far far away from the daily stresses of command. Just as you go to crawl between the cool sheets, EDI alerts you to a presence at the door.

Rolling your eyes, you force yourself to forsake the bed and dredge up the stairs in your black N7 tank top and panties.

The door slides open. And there stands Zaeed, who was dressed similarly the first night he came to hang out.

"Shit," you mutter, and duck your head into your hands to hide your embarrassment. It could have been anyone but him and you wouldn't have cared. Now, here you are, bare legged and braless in front of the one person whom you didn't want to talk to.

"G'ddamn, Shepard. I wasn't expecting—," he began.

You cut him off. "Nevermind. What do you want?" And make no point to hide yourself any further, crossing your arms beneath your breasts.

A man harder than any you've ever known, outside of Hackett himself, looks visibly flustered. He shifts his jaw irritably and he drops his gaze to his own feet.  
"Forget it, Shepard. Wasn't important. Get some sleep."

For a moment, it seems perfectly logical to let him walk away and finally crawl into bed, but you're still really pissed about the other night, how he just walked out on you without explanation or reasoning, without so much as to a grunt indicating anything even went awry. 

"No," you say firmly. You're determined to stand your ground, and do it with an irate tone, one you know will start a fight. "What do you need, Zaeed?" 

He turns his back to you and begins to walk toward the elevator. On instinct, you reach out and grab his shoulder, to make him face you. "Will you talk to me?!," you yell.

The broad shoulder mercenary jerks away from your grasps and spins on his heels. Irritation crinkles his brow, deepens the set of his eyes. The crescent scar pulls taut against his skin as he speaks. "What the bloody hell do you want, Shepard?! I said my part!"

"Your part?!," you scream and ball up your fists at your sides, "You haven't said a goddamn thing to me in four days, Zaeed. So, please, tell me exactly what part you've said here! Because I am dying to know why the fuck my friend just up and left without more than a few words! I deserve that much! Or am I just not even worth the fuckin' effort?!"

He stares at you blankly, the twitch of emotion plays over his good eye. For a hardened man, he looks lost to something greater than he was used to contending with. But you, you're good and mad and the only thing that will cool your ire is an apology of epic proportions.

"What use was it to come talk to me that night if you were just gonna walk out on me anyway? How long have I spent in your company just to talk before you even sashayed your ass up here to have drinks? I never disrespected you! Ever! I never wanted to see you come to harm! I might have decked you but it wasn't without an appropriate reason!," you went on, pulling out a mental list of how far and wide you would walk the stars for him, and you don't even realize what you're saying. That's how anger works; word vomit now, clean up later. He looks on speechless, more and more hurt as you continue. Your heart is thundering.Your voice fills the vacant space between your cabin and the elevator. Words flash like lightning, and you hope it's striking deep and true. The storm that is a furious woman rages, and he is in the direct path.

As you draw closer, letting your ire fly free, and you arch forward on tip-toes to make sure he is paying attention, he does the most unexpected thing:

He leans forward and kisses you.


	5. Simpatico

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut warning, NSFW. I tried to be as tasteful as possible. No idea how bad/good this is actually. Worked too long on it and my brain sort of went numb after the fifth edit. (continuity? I dunno!)

If you ever had reason to be angry, it is right now! That he thinks—actually thinks—a kiss would make up for leaving you high and dry is completely irrational, unforgivable, on top of being utterly disrespectful! And you fall for it! Completely!

Your balled up fists try to push him away, but iron arms lock around your waist. And after a minute of passionate persistence, you give in. Slowly, at first, letting him court your mouth with his own but then tongue, lips, and teeth begin whipping your better senses into a frothy mess. It's sloppy, hard, and as desperate as kisses can go, but it's so good you don't want to stop. Been too long for you both. It takes you a moment to respond to him, remember to kiss back, to breathe. Especially to breathe.

And after your ire dies down to a simmer, he looses his grip. The best thing would probably be to let this go with just a kiss. No need to complicate matters any further. He's a merc and you're the Commander Shepard. No common ground. Or at least, there shouldn't be.

Instead, when he withdraws, you do something stupid and look at him like you want him. You forget to mask the raw desire brimming within you, bedroom eyes rising from the depths of your clouded brain, like suns through a fog. He catches your sordid gaze. Always observant around you. He always is, without fail.

"What are we doing here, Shepard?," Zaeed's voice is darker, quieter, eyes seeking yours, judging, waiting.

You're not sure how to reply, or even if you can. A chemical molotov just exploded in your brain and all rational thought went down in flames. For some reason, all you do think of is, "Better stop all that goddamn thinking."

He barks a loud laugh immediately. Then you have the actual pleasure of seeing a smile blossom across his face. Not such a strange notion after all, you think. It's broad and softens his eyes considerably, deepens the crow's feet branching out to his temples. A deep, gravely laugh accompanies it. Too much smoking but you relish the sound, tuck it down in the recesses of memory for later, to recall the rare moment when you saw Zaeed Massani smile, when you made him laugh, when you used his words against him. The combined sound and sight of humor emanating from him melts your insides, adds to the pile of things labeled Zaeed; things you often explore when you're lonely or in need of a guilty pleasure, things that were rapidly becoming reality. It's an intoxicating dilemma. You've hoarded these thoughts carefully, greedily, kept them safe, and now you feel they might disappear altogether with the possibility of him discovering that cache of things hoped for but never conceived.

The mercenary leans forward and embraces you with iron grip again. It feels he might crush the breath from your ribs, but the touch of his fingers along your spine reassure you. Gently he ushers you into the cabin, stealing a hundred little kisses from your all too eager lips.

Calloused, rough fingers dig into the skin beneath your shirt. He pushes you across the threshold, hotly following. The door shuts behind and you're almost out of range to lock it, except that he has the same idea. He halts, one hand leaves your body to command the GUI panel.

"You sure, Shepard?," he eyeballs you, a bit apprehensive and out of his style.

"Less talking," you remind him in a firm tone. A bit of heat leaps to your flushed cheeks. You're probably the color of the crimson stripe on your panties.

The panel spins and locks, turning from green to red. His gaze and mouth returns to you. It's not much longer before you are both making your way toward your big, empty bed. You surrender to its comfort and to the man who is rubbing a thumb at the corner of his lips as he looks at you. His expression is masked and you start to wonder what exactly he's planning here.

He doesn't leave you to wonder too long. Immediately, his fingers hook into the band of your panties and he slides them from your hips, tosses them onto the bed.

Next thing you know, while you're wriggling under his careful scrutiny, he pulls you by the back of your knees, brings you closer to the edge, and descends. You start to rise in protest because you know exactly what he's about to do and you're not sure if you want that. You were hoping for more of a jump to the good stuff, a little instant gratification. In shock you watch him part your thighs and descend. A red hot blush spreads across your face and you shut your eyes against the image of his face at your thighs. And then just like the first kiss, he touches you, with mouth, tongue, and teeth in slow deliberate movement. Your pulse races as his tongue courts the most intimate part of your body. Heat blooms in your sex. Then he settles in, pulling your thighs over his shoulders and placing his hands on your hips, and begins the real work.

The lack of finesse doesn't bother you. Instead, it sends you reeling, toes curling and thighs tensing around his jaws. Then he falls into a more rhythmic pattern, polishing the rust of his technique away with thorough attention to detail. Narrow tongue spreading, pressing, following the flow of the valley until there's a river running from your core.

You're slowly losing your mind, immersed in the sensation of warm breath spreading against your exposed lips and to the feel of his tongue slipping over and around your clit. His grip on your hips tenses as you let slip a groan on a shaky breath. Your hips work to their own accord against the flow of his mouth, angling him exactly where you need him. He gets it immediately, digs in, encouraged by your actions. His tongue stays steady at your slit, working just on the outside, flicking rhythmically as your hips rise and fall. Cool air tells you one of his hands left the site at your stomach. You nearly choke on your own breath as you feel a finger slip in unexpectedly. And a second one joins it, pressing in and then up, stimulating the forward wall. How'd he know? Did he just figure it out on the fly? Or did he have you pegged for a type? 

There's no time to wonder any further. His shifts his attention on your clit and then its game over. Between his fingers and mouth, he's made you into minced meat, and works you over like a tough steak, trying to break your control.

You gasp and make an attempt to rise but the over stimulation locks up your system. You open your mouth to protest and all that leaves your throat is a deep breathy moan that escapes your lungs like smoke.

"Z, it's too much," you finally croak out. Your pert nipples seem to disagree with the rest of you. Every other part of you seems to disagree with you. You knot your knuckles into the bedding as he continues his assault; fingers jolting in and out of your body, pressing hard on the bundle of nerves in your muscle. You arch your back and let out another deep moan in the form of a curse.

Then all the pressure stops at once. The pleasure, too. You feel him shift and rise. He lets your legs down nice and slow, lets you collect yourself. A sobering breath leaves your chest. 

"Goddamn, Shepard," his voice is quiet again, musky, dark. You hear him suck at what you assume is his fingers. God burn your eyes for wanting to look. You keep your eyes shut, but it can't guard your inner eye from your imagination. God damn that, too! "Those noises... I won't be able to unhear those for awhile."

Lungs protest against breathing, lock your breath up in a dungeon cellar, probably where you kept that stash of everything Zaeed.

"Now, I want to hear you make more."

A lusty afterthought. He could have went without saying it but he did. Every inch of you tenses in prospect of being had, right and proper. Suddenly, you feel him start to drag you from the bed. Instinctively, you turn onto your stomach. Your lungs and brain are having a holiday, skipping out and leaving the lights on. You manage to position yourself perfectly for further advances. Of course, he seizes the opportunity, dragging your ass to meet his hips, watching you cling to the bed desperately as your weak legs are forced to stand.

You exhale weakly and draw in another breath as his head brushes against the curve of your ass. Your body shivers in anticipation. Finally! After all the weeks of back and forth! You wonder why you weren't more direct to begin with. Then you feel his swollen glans slip in and you exhale hard, bracing the rest of your body against the bed, against the feel of every solid inch sinking into you, how his girth parts your tight muscles, slipping into the warmth wetness of your inner core. There's a brief pause. You steel yourself and he moves. Steady. Rhythmic. A slow, gentle tempo of a drum in a slow song. Your body's already primed, revved. He could have just driven in but he's too good. He knows exactly how to work you, somehow. Had you figured out from day one.

And it is good. Controlled, at first. Until you're nice and relaxed, in the flow. Your voice erupts as he strikes chords, stimulates your body in all the right spots. Hot electric current runs up your spine and to your breasts. Pert nips rub against the fabric of your shirt. You bury your face against the bed, groan into the blanket, press your ass against his hips in want of more, for him to drive you to the peak and over it. He reads you loud and clear.

His hips smack relentlessly at your ass, driving the pinnacle of his cock deep inside. Your toes curl against the bare floor. Your back arches and you draw back, strung tight like a bow. He bangs moans out of you left and right, and you hear him curse, feel him squeeze your hips as he draws them against his as he thrusts forward. You're nearing the peak, feel your muscles coil. The tell-tale throb of climax resounds within. And he stops. You drop to the bed again, blood rushing through your ears.

"Fuckin' hell, Z!," you let out a frustrated, muffled groan.

You hear him scoff, feel him withdraw. "Sorry, Shep. This is not how I wanna get you there."

"Well, maybe," you rise indignantly, straightening your shirt and hair as if it mattered. "I want you to fuck me." 

You turn toward him, watching him pull his shirt over his head. You take a gratuitous view of his scars and tattoos, the build of muscle beneath marred skin. Then he leans forward and slides his pants off. You quickly turn your head, as heat hits your cheeks. A bit late for modesty to kick in.

"You think you know what you want," he says as he pushes you onto the bed, rolls you onto your back and climbs on top of you. "But I know what you need." 

He hovers above you, gazing at your features, searching for a reaction. The corners of his lips curl slightly as you fight for thought while soaking in that he's laying on top of you naked. His body is warm. You instantly smell his musk. One of his hands rests on your hip as his cock prods against your thigh.

"Y-yeah," you sound subdued. "Well, I..." You're forced to break off thought as he presses up and in, reintroducing the head of his cock to your slit. "Oh my god." You lean your head back into the bed, eyes closed.

"Yeah, that's what I fuckin' thought," you hear him snort derisively. He's kidding, of course, antagonizing you. You feel his breath on your chin as he kisses it. One kiss turns into several as he leaves a warm trail from your chin to your throat, pausing to feel the pulsating of your heart against his lips before he moves again.

When he does move, its slow, sweet, a different kind of tempo this time. How long had he wanted this, you begin to wonder and start tracing back from when you first met. You're so lost in images, thought, and _feeling_ , you barely notice him lifting your tank over the peak of your breasts, and kisses one, lips parting in a hungry breath. His tongue flicks your nipple and your mind promptly drops the current train of thought. Between his mouth and prick, you struggle to keep sanity and control over your own urges, wanting badly just to let go, give in. You start to wonder why you haven't.

He must have felt your breath falter because his thrust grow more pronounced, fall in deeper, harder. The movements send your senses railing against your physical form, crying out for continued contact and release simultaneously. His mouth puckers around your aureole, sucking your nipple against his tongue. He delves against the sensitive skin and rakes teeth against it.

You exhale in a choked breath. "Z, I'll—!"

He releases your breast from the warm, wet haven of his mouth. You hear him mutter. "So come for me."

Your mind blanks completely. All you know now is the raw need and desire to accumulate to that peak, to ride out the waves of ecstasy. Your hands hold his hips in place, sinking into the muscles of his backside, urging him to continue driving against the spot he occupied, shaft rubbing pleasantly against your slit. You don't even know how long you remain like this until you feel sweat rolling away from your temples and across the tops of your ears.

"C'mon, Shepard," he growls, lust heavy in his tone. "You're killing me." 

The thought of him climaxing with you brings you closer. You're one moan away from going over.

"Come with me," you moan, putting on your best pillow voice, making sure that request would be followed through.

Then it is an aggressive race to get you there. He pulls both of your hands above your head and locks them down as he presses in, spreading your thighs as far as possible to the point of slight discomfort, and slams his hips down, driving the head of his cock in.

As he labors against you, his mouth falls at your ear. Hot breath and growl rush against your skin as he groans your name. Not Shepard, this time, but your first name.

That was all it took before you cry out his name, body shuddering, breath leaving you as you reach climax. Every inch of you seems to throb in unison, one hard clench to verify you were there and it was happening. And his climax follows. He throbs within you and that throbbing only intensifies yours. He lays against you grinding deep, riding out the waves of your hard, pulsating muscles. From your head to your toes, your heartbeat throbs pleasantly.

You have no idea how long you both lay there for. Your consciousness floats on top of reality like oil on water. When his weight lifts from your body, you barely respond. You feel the bed shift next to you then his warm arm wraps around your ribs and pulls you tightly against him.

"Need a smoke after that," he murmurs, breath hot against your temple.

"Not in my cabin," you whisper, a faint smile spreads across your lips.

" _Tch!_ What are you gonna do? You can barely keep your bloody eyes open."

You turn on your side next to him. The drowsiness in your brain can't conceal the truth of your feelings. "Don't leave me. Just for tonight."

"For you," you feel his lips against your forehead, "Anything."

You wonder if he means it and want to put it to the test. But instead, you sink into the warmth of his body against yours and finally let sleep claim you after the hellish schedule you've been on.

\---

When you wake, its to the blaring of your alarm. You jolt up finding too much similarity in it's screeching tone to when the SR-1 was under fire and smack it with your open palm to silence it. Zaeed's no where to be found, of course. You figured as much. May as well not even happened. With a sigh, you rise, look the bed over and start for the shower, barely noticing a gleam of silver from the corner of your eye. You reach over to find your dog tags just beneath the pillow and pull them into your hand assessing them. You hadn't remembered leaving them there. Usually you set them on the night stand. And you specifically remember taking them off before your shower.

As you dangle them from your hand, you realize there's not two tags, but three. You finger them curiously, read your name, birth date, and rank on the first and look over the image of the SR-1 stamped into the second one with the inscription below it, "Dum spiro spero." Ironic, considering. 

The third, however, is not yours. 

_Massani, Z._  
_DOB: 2132/2/4_  
_Private, First Class_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Used Hackett's birth year (2134 C.E.) as a reference point for Zaeed's age since he looks around 50 if not a tad older. Also I headcanon him as an Aquarius (moon sign in Scorpio).


End file.
